The Blood King (22 page)

There was a knock on the door. Sister Taru entered. Berry and Royster followed, bearing Carina’s satchel, clean rags and both a large kettle and a basin. Tris and Taru conferred in low tones for a few minutes, casting glances in Vahanian’s direction, but he could not hear their conversation.

“Show me what you’ve done,” Taru said as she moved to stand beside Vahanian.

“I thought about what you said, back at the citadel—how Carina got me to breathe again,” Tris replied. “She said the lungs were like a bellows. And I thought about the spell that stopped Elam’s heart. If it can be stopped, it can be kept going.” Tris took Taru’s hand. The Sister shut her eyes, and Tris moved her hand above Vahanian’s chest. “Can you feel the spells I’ve set? Those don’t require a Summoner’s magic.”

“I can also feel the soul-binding, although I can’t make such a working myself.”

“It will hold.” Vahanian was not sure that the look in Tris’s eyes matched the certainty of his voice. “As for the other spells, now that they’re set, you should be able to make sure they remain. I should only be gone for a few candlemarks.”

“I can do that,” Taru replied. She looked at Tris with concern. “Be careful, Tris.

Very few mortals are called before the Blood Council. Few that are, return.”

“Gabriel believes he can protect me. I hope he’s right.” With a worried glance in Vahanian’s direc-tion, Tris left to interrogate the assassin and ready himself for the Blood Council.

Taru stepped closer to Vahanian, and touched his forehead lightly with her fingertips. She closed her eyes in thought, and then looked over to where Carina watched worriedly from the fireplace. Berry had appointed herself Carina’s apprentice. Royster set out two worn leather volumes he withdrew from under his coat.

“Whatever you need, Carina, we’re here for you,” the white-haired librarian promised.

Carina squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. “Then let’s get started. It’s going to be a long night.”

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ALONE IN HIS rooms, Tris leaned back against the door and closed his eyes.

He was far more spent than he had let on to Kiara, perhaps even more than Carina realized. Blinding headaches came less often in reaction to strong magic as Tris grew more adept with his power, but Tris resigned himself to a continual dull throb behind his eyes. His body ached from the gruel-ing pace of sword practice and climbing drills. Although the night’s commitments made it likely he would be awake until dawn, Tris wanted nothing so much as a long soak in a very hot tub and an uninter-rupted night’s sleep.

Giving up that fantasy, he pushed away from the door. A fresh outfit lay on his bed. His own shirt and doublet were stained with Vahanian’s blood. Not something I want going into a council of vayash moru, Tris thought as he loosed his ruined vest and pulled his tunic over his head.

He was too tired to pick up the discarded items. He moved wearily to the pitcher and basin at the bedside, steeling himself for the splash of cold water as he washed Vahanian’s blood from his hands. My own blood will be distraction enough for the Council.

Tris poured a glass of port, and realized his hands were shaking. It was the first opportunity he’d had to think about what happened. Saving Vahanian’s life had crowded out everything else in the moment. Now, Tris realized that the knife had been meant for him. Clearly, the attacker had considered how best to strike a mage. Tris did not relish the task of interrogating the assassin.

He remembered Abelard’s warning. Even here, amid Staden’s protections, neither Tris nor his friends were completely safe. Yet another reason I never wanted to be king. No one tries to kill second sons. Normally, we’re riot important enough to assassinate.

Tris sat for a moment beside the fire, letting it warm his chest and shoulders as he sipped the port. Oh, Kait, he thought, how did we ever get so far away from home? Her spirit did not answer him. He remembered the glitter of Winterstide in Bricen’s court, with Bricen and Serae presiding over the well-feasted crowd of nobles, and Kait, showing off shamelessly at the falconing trials. Serae had been pressuring Tris to enter the jousting competition. Now they were all dead. Even if he succeeded in taking back the throne, Margolan’s celebration would never be the same again.

Tris stared into the fire, watching the dancing flames as the port warmed his blood. Vahanian’s

injuries worried him. Tris had been able to anchor his friend’s spirit and compensate for the paralysis, but all would be in vain unless Carina could purge the poison before lasting damage occurred. His own gratitude was tempered by guilt. I’ve got to be on guard, all of the time, Tris chastened himself. / can’t depend on Jonmarc or anyone else to watch over me. It’s my risk, my responsibility.

Reluctantly, he set aside the empty glass and stood, stretching to ease his tired muscles. He dressed in the fresh clothing and tried to smooth his hair into a reputable queue. There was a knock at the door just as Tris finished adjusting his collar. With one hand near his sword, Tris opened the door, relieved to find Gabriel outside. While Gabriel maintained that vayash moru could not truly read mortals’ minds, Tris found that their enhanced hearing often gave the illusion of telepa-thy. The trait was unnerving.

“King Staden and General Hant will meet us in the greatroom, my prince,”

Gabriel said. “After that, by your leave, we’ll go to the Council.”

Tris fell into step beside the vayash morn, who slowed his stride to accommodate mortal speed. The evening’s merrymakers had fled the palace after the attack. In the greatroom, only the king, Hant, and a half dozen guards awaited them.

Apparently Staden is feeling a bit vulnerable too, Tris thought.

The dead assassin lay in a pool of congealed blood on the floor. His back bore a burn from the blue mage lightning Tris had cast, and Jae’s talons had left six long tears where the gyregon had struck the assassin’s shoulders. The hilt of a small dagger protruded from the man’s chest, testimony to Berry’s aim. Tris motioned for the others to give him more room, and they all stepped back respect-fully.

“So it’s true… you intend to summon this brigand for questions, even now?”

Hant asked, his eyes nar-rowing.

“Have the guards determined anything from the body?”

Hant shook his head. “By the look of him, he could be from Margolan—or from Isencroft or Dhasson, for that matter. No identification on him, but he had Margolan gold in his pocket, and these.” Hant nudged the body with his boot to reveal a variety of short darts.

“He had a Mussa knife,” Gabriel observed. “Not a common weapon.”

Tris bent closer, and pulled the dead man’s shirt to one side. Around his neck on a strap was an amulet. Tris sensed its dark power. Tris pushed Hant’s hand aside when the general moved to touch the talis-man. “It was spelled by Arontala, I’m sure of it. Don’t touch it.”

“What does it do?” Hant asked, fearlessly crouching closer for a better look.

“I won’t know without probing it, and I don’t want to probe it without wardings set. But I have a few suspicions.”

Staden looked at Tris. “While this one is beyond punishing, if you can summon him and find who sent him, Hant can take it from there.”

Tris took a deep breath and closed his eyes, find-ing his center. He raised a warding, first around the body on the floor, and then a second one separating himself from the group of onlookers. Finally, he raised a third warding over the entire group, remembering the way Arontala had sought and found him on the spirit plains during the ill-fated scrying at Westmarch.

Tris was aware of the living men in the room, of the curious emptiness that signaled a vayash moru, and of the body on the floor. It was toward that corpse that Tris stretched out his power, seeking its soul on the Plains of Spirit.

The spirit rushed up at him, rising so quickly that Tris took a step backward, raising his hands to keep the angry ghost at a distance. The spirit lunged at the wardings, trying to tear through with both teeth and nails, wild-eyed in its ferocity. When it found it could not break the wardings, it keened a high-pitched wail of sheer frustration.

The guards cried out and pointed in frightened awe. Staden drew back a pace.

Hant did not move, his thin body coiled as if to spring, his flinty eyes narrowed and intent on the target.

“Why have you called me?” The spirit spoke with the accent of the Margolan plains.

“Who are you, and why did you try to kill me?” Tris countered, adding power to his wardings.

“I am Hashak, and I serve King Jared!” The ghost drew back, no longer charging at the wardings but still wary, his fists balled at his sides.

“Who sent you?” Tris pressed. “Someone acquired the knife and the poisons for you. Who was it?”

“I thought you were a Summoner,” the ghost taunted. “If you want that information, take it from me. Why should I tell you?”

“No Light Mage will harm a spirit, although per-haps your master’s mage won’t be so forgiving. But no, I don’t need your statement. A Summoner of power can read the last thoughts of a fresh corpse. From that, we’ll know who sent you.”

The spirit looked surprised, and his bluster tem-pered. “Then why call me here?”

“I can offer you something Jared can’t. I can pass you over to the Lady.” Tris gestured to the amulet around the corpse’s neck. “When Jared gave that to you, did he tell you what it does?”

“He said it would protect me. Obviously, he lied.”

A slight, bitter smile reached the corners of Tris’s lips. “Of course he lied. His blood mage made that amulet. In the palace, Shekerishet, there’s an orb that is the portal to the abyss itself. In that orb, the spirit of the Obsidian King waits to be reborn. Before he can be reborn, he must feed. On souls,” Tris added, watching the treachery of Jared’s gift dawn on the spirit.

“You mean he plans to pull me into his bloody orb?” the spirit shouted. “Feed me to his mon-ster?”

Tris nodded, feeling the amulet gather power as they spoke. Any moment now it could trigger, and if it sensed Tris’s magic close at hand, Tris was not sure his wardings would hold. “Do you know which Aspect of the Lady comes for murderers?” Just beyond his mage sight, he could feel the approach of the Crone, her dark, cold, death embrace awaiting the guilty one. Nervously, the spirit glanced around him, as if he, too, felt the Crone’s approach.

“Not the Crone!” he cried out. “By the Dark Lady, I don’t want to be eaten, and I don’t want to go to the Crone!”

The Crone’s imminent approach and the gather-ing power of the amulet made the hairs on the back of Tris’s neck prickle with primal dread. “You don’t have much time,” Tris said, hoping his voice was steady. “I can save you from the amulet and I can plead your case with the Lady, but I’d need a reason to care.”

The ghost’s blustering was gone. He threw him-self to the floor, just beyond Tris’s warding. “I’ll tell you everything!” the assassin sputtered. “I got into some trouble in Margolan, and the guards were going to hang me. I’ve lived a bad life—no one’s going to tell you otherwise. Been a thief and a cut-throat and a snitch. No one deserved a noose more’n me, to tell the honest truth.” The spirit looked back into the shadows again, and spoke even more rapidly, fearing the Crone’s approach.

“I was in the dangler’s cell in the jail, where they hold the next men to be hanged. A strange man in a red robe came. The guards were right afeared of him, and they did whatever he said. He called for me, said he had a job, and that if I did it, he would make sure I didn’t hang.” The ghost’s words poured out, his accent blurring them together.

“Well, of course I took the job. And when he said it was a bit of blade work, I wasn’t squeamish— done that kind of thing before. He gave me the gold and a horse to get to Principality, told me who it was I should look for.” He dared a glance in Tris’s direction. “Said I’d have the best chance in the feast crowd at Winterstide. I saw you straight away, with that white hair of yours. Waited for the biter to move away,” he said with a disdainful look at Gabriel, “and then I took my chance. Didn’t think your friend would be so keen to take the blade for you.”

Tris’s anger flared, and he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “Did he say anything else, the man who hired you?” Tris pressed. They had very little time.

The amulet was gaining power rapidly, and the Crone hovered just beyond sight, as if she, too, listened to the ghost’s tale.

Panic was rising in the ghost’s voice. “He said that if I couldn’t get to you, that I should kill the king, that he deserved to die for taking you in, that anyone who opposed King Jared deserved to die.” He glanced around himself in fear as the amulet on the corpse began to glow. “Please, m’lord wizard, don’t let them take me!”

“There’s something else you haven’t told me,” Tris said, acting more on hunch than certainty. “You’re running out of time.”

The ghost shrieked, terrified of the glowing amulet and the nearness of the Crone. “If I could strike and escape, I was to meet a groomsman in the stable, a man named Turas. We were to watch for a time when Princess Kiara went riding, and use a dart to drug her. If I brought the princess to King Jared, the man promised that not only would the king keep me from hanging, but he would make sure I had honor beyond measure.” The assassin nearly wept in fear.

Tris wrestled with his feelings at the ghost’s casu-al malice. “He promised you wouldn’t hang because he was fairly sure you’d be killed in the attempt. If he promised you honor beyond measure, it’s as a sacrifice to the Obsidian King.”

Tris could feel the power radiating from the amulet as it searched for the assassin’s ghost, and began to draw the spirit into its red glow.

“Please, m’lord! You promised!”

“So I did.” Tris was sorely tempted to leave the unrepentant assassin to his fate.

Tris stretched out his hand, focusing his power, and sent a blast of energy toward the amulet. A red flare rose in answer. The onlookers gasped and stepped back again, against the outer edges of the wardings.

Tris knew the imprint of Arontala’s power. Even at this distance, behind his wardings, he could feel the pull of the Soulcatcher. Tris was braced for the red fire that erupted from the amulet, as it had from the scry-ing orb at Westmarch and from Alaine’s amulet. Only this time, his shields held and the blue fire he sent in answer slowly forced the red fire backward, until the flames consumed the corpse and filled the greatroom with the stench of burning flesh.